Daedalian Muse Read online

Though it was clearly described as a small town, the true scale of Greyfield’s macrocosmic entirety was astounding. One could walk down one single street, from beginning to end, and cross town in only a matter of minutes. This was, at least, the hub of Greyfield, it’s downtown district. A scattering of remote homes and general stores made up the rest. Then there was the pub, which seemed to be located where all roads in Greyfield intersected. Due to this rather simplistic layout, it was not so much difficult to find the road to the mews.

  With Aristotle in tow I made my way down the small single-lane artery, taking the lead while he tagged behind. He took the time to smell the flowers and chase the insects, but always kept up with me with the faithful obedience of a canine. The weather made for a fine afternoon, and I nodded my head and smiled cheerfully to the occasional passers-by. I even withdrew my pocket watch and marked the time with a wink when I ambled past a pretty young lass, but she seemed not to notice. Perhaps they were all wary of me as, in most small towns, outsiders are met with distrust. Why the very word 'barbarian' is derived from the Greek 'barbarois', meaning 'foreigner'. Perhaps they were intimidated by the man who had come to rid their modest hamlet of it’s evil presence. Or perhaps they were daunted by the rather large uninflated balloon that I dragged along the path behind me, or the small portable tank of helium that I carried under my arm. I was unable to draw a volunteer from Justin, as he was much too perplexed by what problem the constable had with his apparent travelling magic show. Not to be told that I was afraid of a little hard work, I nonetheless brought all necessary equipment with me to the site.

  “Good day, sir,” a chipper young voice said, nonetheless exhibiting a trace amounts of humility. I glanced up and noted a young lady crossing my path on the opposite side of the road. She, too, was carrying a heavy load. A canvas sack that I assumed to contain more dirty laundry.

  “Hello!” I called, grateful for the interaction. “Tell me, am I heading in the right direction for the mews?”

  “Why yes you are,” she called back. We both stood on opposite sides of the road as though we feared being struck by a motorcar, though I must attest that, aside from Constable Richard’s patrol car, I had yet to see any other motor vehicle in the vicinity. Both coming to the same conclusion at the same time, we each set down our heavy loads and met halfway, at the unmarked centre lane divide.

  “You’re the man investigating the mews, aren’t you?” the young lady said with an impressed smile. I must say I was immediately taken by her aloofness and they way she shyly averted my gaze. Had she not been about ten years my junior I might have attempted to craft some words to woo her. She wore a bonnet to hold her hair and an old denim dress, all of which showed the wear of laborious tasks. Wiping the sweat-moistened hair from her bashful cheeks, she smiled as she awaited a response.

  “And you’re the girl from Mr. Coaltree’s residence,” I pointed out. “The one doing the washing.”

  She nodded, still avoiding eye contact.

  “I thought you were his daughter,” I confessed, “but was soon corrected, so I concluded that you were in their employ – a hypothesis validated by the fact that no one paid any particular heed to your presence.” Fluttering the young girl’s heart, I reached out and lifted her chin with my thumb and forefinger. “Actually I felt as though I were the only one there to see you at all. Such a shame.”

  “Perhaps,” she replied, her accent flawless and free of any modern-day taint, “you indeed were. Why I might just be another spirit that haunts their household, and you in turn may be the only man with enough integrity and heart to truly set eyes upon me.”

  I hesitated as I replayed my every memory. Surely Mrs. Coaltree had at least glanced at her when she entered with the washing. For a moment I cursed myself for paying so much attention to the focus of my investigations.

  I gave a laugh in spite of myself. “Young lady, you seek to daunt me.”

  She smiled, pleased with herself. “And you seek the mews. They are that way,” she said, pointing in my general direction. “Myself, I wish I could help you but I’ve my own burdens to carry. You might ask my brother for assistance, for an able-bodied lad such as himself would surely volunteer. However I ask that you keep him away from the centre of the remains where the hauntings lay - a recommendation that I caution you to adhere to as well.”

  “I’ll keep your caring concern in mind. Where might I find your brother?”

  Again she pointed down the road, in the general direction I was headed. “He is in Greyfield Park, directly across from the grounds whereupon the ruins lay.”

  “Well I should make it that far, but perhaps he will be willing to assist me in setting up my equipment. Tell me, dear girl, who should I say recommended him?”

  She glowed, knowing that I sought her name. She turned and headed back to her canvas sack, though she threw me a coy smile over her shoulder. “Why his sister, Mr. Fugit.”

  And without another word she carried on.

  Reaffirming my grip on my cargo I remained true to my path, ultimately finding a clearing upon which lay a cricket green and a series of picnic tables. The park looked as though it would have been a focal gathering point for the entire village on any other day, but with the ominous remnants of the mews shadowing the grounds from beyond the small stream that divided the two scapes, the park found itself devoid of any life. If anything I would have thought the grounds to be more likely to stir up fodder for treacherous tales, simply due to the knowledge that beneath my feet lay a large grave. Whether human remains were buried along with the gutted manor I was not sure, but it was a grave nonetheless.

  I decided to begin my experiments on the more appealing side of the stream, though not out of fear of approaching the wreckage. Much like any investigation it is best to start on the outside of the issue and slowly work your way to its core. Hauling my equipment to the edge or the dividing stream, I saw a young boy chasing a ball, though he had no companion to pass it to. When he saw me and my equipment his curiosity compelled him, and he left his ball to come investigate.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, attempting an authoritative scrutiny worthy of Constable Richards. “Have you got a license for all this?”

  “And what license would I require?” I asked, barely paying him any heed.

  The boy shrugged. “I dunno, but I reckon you’d need one. Tell you what, I’ll not run and tell the licensing bureau for, oh...say...a tenner?”

  “Blackmail’s your game then, is it?” I asked. “You’ve already got your life of crime laid out for you and you’re only seven years old.”

  “Nine,” he insisted indignantly. He then saw Aristotle, who pounced upon his foot. “Wot’s this?” he exclaimed.

  “Aristotle,” I introduced. “He’s a bit curious.”

  The boy crouched down and began to pet him. “He actually follows you? Without a leash? I thought cats didn’t do that?”

  “Most don’t,” I explained, setting up a series of vials and retrieving a plastic bottle of tap water. “He’s a Bombay. They’re an extremely friendly and social breed.”

  “Well I wouldn’t let my sister see it. She loves black cats. Maybe because she’s such a witch.”

  “Well that’s hardly a kind thing to say to your...”

  I paused.

  “Your sister...she wouldn’t happen to be the lovely young girl who headed that way about fifteen minutes ago, would she?”

  “No,” he stated simply.

  “Oh.”

  “She’s not lovely. My sister did go by here a few minutes ago though.”

  So this was the strong and able-bodied lad that she promised me? Her sense of humour was quite devilish. Nevertheless I managed to coax the lad into performing a few tasks for me, as his natural curiosity took hold when he realized that I intended to inflate a large balloon.

  “Who’s birthday is it?” he had asked. He was of course disappointed when I told him tha
t I wished to set aloft a balloon carrying a make-shift barometer. “Sounds lame.”

  “A barometer is an instrument that measures the air pressure. Lower air pressure denotes the approach of bad weather. If the air pocket in this water tube rises and spills water, we know that the air pressure has lowered.”

  “Can’t you just turn on the TV to see what the weather’s going to be like?”

  “It’s not the weather I’m interested in,” I explained. “I want to see if the air pressure is different here as opposed to over there.”

  I pointed to the remains of the Mews.

  “Oh.”

  Finally he spoke like the timid boy he looked like.

  “Have you ever been over there?”

  “Of course I have,” he insisted. “Loads of times.”

  “Great, be a good lad then and set this small barometer up over there for me.”

  He hesitated. He paused. He panicked.

  “Not right now. In a bit, yeah? I’m not done helping you here yet.”

  I let him off the hook, and we continued inflating the balloon and setting up the small basket that would carry my barometer. He applauded happily when it was set aloft, then quickly returned to his game of ‘chase the string’ with Aristotle whilst I fastened it to a secure anchor. While the lad was busy occupying my sole companion I retrieved from my leather bag a spyglass, a relic from my father’s days as a sailor. Though more complex and better quality equipment was available, I preferred it’s simplicity, not to mention it’s sentimental value. Extending it I stood erect like a sailor at the ship’s bow and surveyed all that lay before me. There was little that was notable about the remains of the Mews, aside from the unfortunate state of it’s disrepair. As unfounded as it may be, I always felt a certain remorse for some inanimate objects, such as buildings, who have suffered a virtual death and were stripped of their former glory. This house, like the one beneath the soil at my feet, was once the focal point of this village, yet now all that remained were a series of pillars, columns, the remnants of doorways and a number of walls that were once the west wing. Through these broken windows and the holes in the demolished walls I could see little, as though even the daylight feared to enter.

  “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” the boy chirped, then followed with a squeal as Aristotle pounced upon his hand.

  “No, not really,” I replied. I had already removed my jacket for the heat, and contemplated removing my vest as well. I returned my view to the mews. “The wreckage, however, is quite fascinating.”

  “Dare you to go over there,” he said with the same devilish intent his sister bore.

  I scanned the former gardens, where fountains and sculptures were overgrown with weeds and shrubs. “I just may. Tomorrow. After I have time to analyze my readings.”

  “You won’t,” he teased me, his attention still on his feline game. “Even Antony’s big brother Phil won’t go over there, and he used to live in London!”

  I panned over to the east wing, which was just a series fallen support beams and quarter-height walls, just as overgrown. “I’m sure that is a reputable measure of his courage,” I replied absently. “I do not know this Phil or Antony, but tell me boy...what is your name?”

  “Jack.”

  I brought my line of sight back to the west wing, once again focusing on the windows that allowed little light. “And tell me, Jack...what is your sister’s name?”

  “My sister?” he asked, disgusted. “She’s gross! What do you want with her? Besides, she’s only fifteen!”

  That startled me. I was aware that females seem to age much quicker physically as of late - a phenomenon I often blamed on the transmission of growth hormones injected into the livestock to expedite growth in order to meet today's high demand - but her demeanour did not reflect her age. It is not too often that my analysis and conclusions are so far off the mark. I tried to stifle my surprise and continued my observation of the remains.

  “Are you sure?” I felt inclined to ask.

  However before I received a response I, admittedly, gasped in horror.

  “I know my sister’s age, mister. I’m not stupid!”

  I struggled to hold the spyglass still as I focused on an image in one of the windows. It was just as Mr. Coaltree had described. She was as white as a sheet, her hair ragged, her eyes red, and her skin in an advanced state of rigor mortis. Gasping for breath and fighting to control my senses, fearful that I might unwittingly indulge myself in the same fear-mongering fancy that so many others do when faced with an unknown. It was exactly as Mr. Coaltree had illustrated, and in the exact same place. Perhaps it was an illusion, an image, a dummy.

  “My sister has all sorts of girl germs. You don’t go for that sort of thing, do you?”

  At first it seemed as though the apparition stared out into the void, but as I steadied my view I saw her turn and lock on eye contact with me. It was no coincidence - she saw me. Then, eliminating all possibilities I had on hand in those few moments, the visage simply dissolved and vanished into thin air before my eyes.

  “Why aren’t you answering?”

  I stared at the empty spot for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Mister? What’s wrong?”

  I lowered the telescope, retracted it, and began putting it along with all my other instruments hurriedly back into my bag.

  “We’re finished here,” I said to Jack. “We can leave now.”

  CHAPTER FIVE